


tenderest touch (leaves the darkest of marks)

by scribespirare



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blindness, Eventual Happy Ending, Eye Trauma, Graphic Description of Injury, How Not To Use Professional Grade Cleaning Chemicals: A Guide, Hurt/Comfort, It's not bloody or gory but boy is it Detailed, M/M, Self-Harm, We're gonna get there I promise, even if i dont know how yet lmao, eventual tags to be added, self-injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:43:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23008795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribespirare/pseuds/scribespirare
Summary: He thinks of his dreams, of night after night stalking through other people’s worst memories.He thinks of the monster he’s becoming.The bottle tips and pours over his face.aka what if Jon went through with the plan to blind himself and run away with Martin
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 36
Kudos: 378
Collections: TMA Escaping Beholding Via Eye Trauma Fics





	tenderest touch (leaves the darkest of marks)

**Author's Note:**

> what UP i decided i need to like, really really hurt Jon even more than the show but then also give him a happy ending so here's my chance to do that! buckle up kiddos. As a side note, if you get chemicals in your eyes for the love of god go to the hospital and don't rely on washing them out with water. seriously.

The conversation should not have gone the way it did. Jon can feel it in his bones, that this isn’t the path he’s meant to be following.

Which, in his opinion, is all the reason to follow it more. Damn the path set out before him, and damn whoever or _what_ ever is trying to push him down it, prodding and poking at him like it’s moving a cow along the chute, headed for slaughter.

The idea is terrifying. Of course it is, he’s going to physically _blind_ himself. Permanently. That’s terrifying, it’s insane, it’s the kind of stupid move that could kill not just him but anyone he drags along for the ride. He’s only guessing at the consequences here and, more obviously, it’s kind of hard to run from monsters when you can’t bloody well see. There’s also no guarantee that ridding himself of the Eye will make everything else supernatural back off. It’s just as likely that the Eye’s influence is the only reason he hasn’t been outright murdered yet. Additionaly, he could be more monster than man at this point, and the whole stupid stunt could kill him. So many variables, so many ifs, so many things he just doesn’t know.

He’s going to do it anyways.

Maybe it’s the way Martin had laughed, had said, “Who are you kidding, you’re not gonna do any of that,” like Jon _wasn’t_ serious, like he was just fucking around when so many lives were at stake. Jon had drawn himself up straight, determination settling low in his gut, in that place that goes fluttery and weak each time he faces down a new horror. And the realization that he _was_ serioushad dawned slow and horrible over Martin’s face. Jon had walked out, and Martin hadn’t followed.

The least awful way to do it is probably with chemicals. There are tools lurking somewhere around the archives, awls and picks and needles used for repairing books and general maintenance. And while they would certainly get the job done, Jon isn’t certain he could actually use them on himself. Certainly not when he’d have to do one eye after the other. He’s never been a fan of pain, and inflicting it upon himself…well, he’s getting better at it, was willing to take his own finger off with an old scalpel. But the only thing worse than blinding himself would be to ruin one eye and then not have the courage to go through with the other. 

There’s a storage closet and inside of it, a wall of cleaning chemicals. Jon stares at the bottles, the different colored liquids and the bright labels with all their warnings and hazard symbols. He’s not a janitor or a- a chemist, he doesn’t know what half of them are, but it only takes a moment of looking for him to Know which bottle will cause the most damage. The knowledge is just _there_ the moment his eyes graze over the bottle, like it was sitting and waiting for him. Funny, considering what exactly he’s going to do with that knowledge. Perhaps the Watcher doesn’t control every piece of information Jon is fed.

The bottle is smaller than some of the others, cylindrical, the liquid inside clear but more viscous than he was expecting when he picks it up. Whatever label had once been on it is long faded, leaving behind random letters and individual words, a safety hazard symbol he doesn’t know the exact meaning of. Whatever it is, he Knows it’ll do the trick.

He takes it with him back to his office and sets it on the center of his desk. Then he sits and just…stares. His stomach is roiling at the thought of what he’s going to use it for. But what else is he supposed to do, really? Allow himself to continue on down this path? Wait for the next ritual to pop up, for the next friend to die, for the next almost end of the world? No. No, he deserves a piece of happiness and rest after this nightmare and the only way he’s ever going to do that is by severing his tie with the Watcher. If that means disabling himself, so be it.

On sudden whim he grabs his laptop and pulls it close. The top of the bottle peeks out at him from over top the screen and he resolutely ignores it as he opens up Google. For several minutes he searches up the results and medical attention needed for chemical eye burns, familiarizing himself with what’s going to happen. It makes him sick to his stomach, rocks that determination so low in his gut, the one thing driving him forward. But better to know now while he can still actually look the information up for himself.

For the most part it looks like the only medical attention needed, besides painkillers, is a way to flush the eyes. That’s simple enough and something he can do on his own if necessary. Most of the websites say not to rub the eyes or wrap them in a bandage, and also to act as quickly as possible. To make damn sure he actually goes blind he’ll probably need to give the chemicals a minute or two to work which…does not sound pleasant. But it’s doable. He’s _going_ to do it. And he won’t even need to call an ambulance afterwards. A bonus considering the thought of being hospitalized after his coma makes his skin crawl. He won’t heal as well without professional help of course, but he’s willing to accept that risk. 

There’s a knock at his door and Jon doesn’t look up from the paragraph he’s reading about alkaline burns. “Come in, Martin.”

It’s the first time Martin has come looking for Jon instead of the other way around in…well, a really, really long time. He slips inside and closes the door behind himself, leaning back against it, hands against the handle behind his back. Jon still isn’t looking at him, but he knows what Martin is staring at. The bottle on his desk. He can hear the uptick in Martin’s breathing, the faint gasp.

“So…so you’re really going to do it then?”

Jon finishes his paragraph and finally looks up. Martin’s face is pale, paler than usual, and he looks a little queasy.

“I think I have to,” Jon admits, closing his laptop. “I think it’s…necessary.”

“It’s really, really not.”

“It is,” Jon insists, as gentle as he knows how to be. “I think…well, there’s a hierarchy here, right? I’m the Archivist, and you guys are my assistants. You work under me. So if…if I sever my connection, I think perhaps it will sever everyone else’s as well. At the end of the day, my vision is a pretty small price to pay for everyone’s freedom from this place.”

“But you don’t _know_ that’s what will happen,” Martin says, finally stepping further into the room. His gaze is downcast, still staring at the damn bottle. “You’re taking a huge risk here, Jon. What are we going to do if…if it doesn’t work? What’re we going to do without an Archivist?”

Jon can’t help his snort. “Please. What good have I done any of you in the past few months, Martin?”

That finally seems to get Martin’s attention as his head snaps up, gaze narrowed angrily. “Don’t _do_ that,” he hisses, suddenly pissed. “I know everyone else has been putting you down but don’t you do it too. You’ve been here since day one, Jon. You saved Daisy. You helped stop the Unknowing. You’re _trying_. None of us knows what the hell we’re doing here.”

“ _I’m turning into a monster,_ ” Jon snaps back, hackles raised. “And this is the only way I can think to stop it. The only way to get all of you out of this...this at the same exact time.”

“ _Maybe,”_ Martin insists. “You don’t know for sure.”

A pause, a silence, then Jon sighs and slumps. “No, no I suppose I don’t. But I haven’t known anything for sure in…in a long, long time it feels like.” Nothing the Eye hasn’t given him, anyways.

All their collective anger and frustration seems to melt away at that, leaving behind two exhausted, confused men. Jon’s stomach growls, an unbearable ache, but he knows it’s not growling for food. He steadfastly ignores the statements he knows are in the drawer of his desk.

“So…where are you going to do it?” Martin finally asks.

Jon sighs. “I don’t know. Home…I guess. I was looking it up, and so long as I can rinse my eyes out afterwards I shouldn’t need to go to the hospital. I’ll need a few days to recover afterwards, and then…well, I suppose I’ll need to leave.” 

Martin sucks air noisily through his teeth, clearly displeased. “Just to be clear,” he says, slowly, “I don’t agree with any of this. I think you’re making a huge, huge mistake. But…but if you want, you can come to my place. It’ll be…easier, probably, with someone to uh. Help out. Afterwards.”

“Oh,” Jon says, surprised. Warmed, just a little. Their relationship has always been rocky, a little uncertain. Martin chasing after Jon when Jon was too cynical and paranoid to appreciate the efforts, and now Jon chasing after Martin when the other man has gotten himself too deep into…well, whatever Lucas has him doing. To hear that that bridge hasn’t been burned completely is rather good news.

“Yes, actually, that would be…really nice.” As nice as recovering from chemical eye burns can be, he supposes. He wants to ask about Lucas though, about Martin’s new priorities and if Jon is interfering with them. But holds his tongue instead, scared that if the man is mentioned Martin might suddenly change his mind.

Martin nods. “Right. Right, okay, uh…when? When did you want to, um.”

Jon licks his lips, stomach flipping as he glances down at the bottle again. “No time like the present, I suppose.”

It’s not like there’s really much of a job for them to do these days at the Institute. Not really. So they leave, together, and take the tube to Jon’s apartment first. Martin hovers by the door, awkward but looking around curiously at the messy, organized chaos that is Jon’s life. The bare essentials he keeps in an apartment he rarely seems to return to. He grabs up several changes of clothes, chargers for his electronics- though he supposes they might be useless to him here soon- as well as his bottle of saline from the bathroom, leftover from when he’d tried to wear contacts the once. It hadn’t gone well. But he supposes he won’t have to worry about glasses _or_ contacts after this.

Then it’s off to Martin’s flat, just a few minutes walk away actually, which Jon hadn’t known. Martin’s home is much neater than Jon’s with a folded blanket over the back of the couch, a kettle on the stove ready to be used, and a neat line of shoes right by the door. It’s…comfortable.

“I don’t have a guest bedroom,” Martin admits sheepishly, standing in the middle of his tiny living room. “But you can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Jon shakes his head. “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” To emphasize his point he sets his bag on the couch, claiming it as his own. At least temporarily. “This is fine.”

It’s clear Martin doesn’t agree and wants to argue the point, but he just shrugs and lets it go. He glances at the kitchen, then at Jon, and Jon can sense the impending question coming. _Are you going to do it now or…_?

“Where’s your bathroom?” Jon asks, before Martin can say anything. Might as well get this over with, right? And best to do it over a sink so he doesn’t spill too much of the chemical everywhere.

“Down the hall, to the right,” Martin responds, wringing his hands in front of himself. “Jon, I don’t think I can…I can’t…” _I can’t watch you do this yourself_ goes unsaid, but Jon still hears it.

“It’s fine,” he says, digging through his bag for the chemical bottle. “Just…just come get in me say, ten minutes? That should be long enough for it to…work.” For the chemical to fully penetrate through his cornea to the sensitive mechanisms within, and then ruin them. Right.

Martin’s mouth twists just like his hands, clearly unhappy. But he nods and points down the hall towards the bathroom, and Jon goes, taking the chemical bottle with him.

It’s a nice bathroom he thinks distantly, closing the door softly behind himself. Small but clean with a little towel hung up by the sink to dry your hands on and a shower with a frosted glass door tucked into the corner.

Jon sets the bottle down on the counter and the sound it makes is loud in his ears. So is his breathing. He’s going to do this. He’s _going to do this._

When he unscrews the lid on the bottle the smell of ammonia hits him so strongly he nearly gags. It makes his eyes water long before he even lifts it, the scent nearly choking in such a small space. That alone is enough to make him pause. His hands are on the bottle but motionless, gaze distant for a long moment. He feels like he’s going to puke.

When he glances up at himself in the mirror his reflection regards him with fear and uncertainty. His dark skin has gone unhealthy pale and ashy, and even in the glass he can see a faint tremor all throughout his body. Brown, lifeless eyes stare back at him, lips chapped and bitten raw falling open on every labored breath. His worm scars seem to stand out more than usual, ghastly and ever present.

With a start he realizes he’s still wearing his glasses and reaches up to take them off. Won’t be needing those anymore. He folds them and sets them aside, then finally picks up the bottle. The scent of the liquid burns his nose and the roof of his mouth as he lifts it towards his face.

What’s the best way to do this exactly? He doesn’t want to get this stuff all over Martin’s clean bathroom. Should he stand in the shower, maybe? So it’s easy to wash away afterwards. Easier to rinse his eyes out too.

Feeling a little silly, he toes his shoes off and opens the shower door. He leaves the door open and steps inside, yellowed ceramic cool against his sock-clad feet. The tighter space should perhaps feel claustrophobic, but instead is faintly comforting. He takes a deep breath and tips his head back. Raises the bottle. He can’t help but close his eyes at first, then forces them open again. His hand is shaking.

He thinks of his dreams, of night after night stalking through other people’s worst memories, forcing them to relive them over and over again solely to feed himself. To feed his God. He thinks of Tim, dead and blaming Jon to the very end, he thinks of Daisy and how defeated she had sounded down in the coffin. How she trails after everyone now, not the same, needing the comfort and presence of another person at all times merely to stay stable. He thinks of Elias, locked away but still pulling invisible strings, and he thinks of Gertrude, dead because she did not play the game Elias wanted her to.

He thinks mostly of the monster he’s becoming. Of the power that’s growing deep within him, sinking claws into his bones and tissue and organs, and how if he doesn’t rip it out now it will surely devour him whole. Turn him into something inhuman, something that stalks the streets hunting for more statements, for fear.

The bottle tips. The liquid is cool when it hits his face, first his cheekbones but then pouring, dripping down into his eyes, and still he pours and pours. He has to make sure he gets the job done the first time around.

It takes a second or two for anything except the temperature to register. But then register it does. The burn comes on harsh and fast, so painful a cry is ripped from his throat and his fingers spasm, causing him to drop the bottle. More of the chemical splashes over his face, his forehead and cheeks and over the sensitive skin of his already raw lips. He screams, eyes clenching shut but all that does is trap the chemical between his eyelids and eyes. His hands come up to his face automatically, a reaction born of instinct as he rubs and pulls at his face, the chemical in turn burning his fingers. He can barely feel it where he’s already scarred from Jude, but the skin on the opposite hand itches and sears. The liquid is starting to run down his face to his throat and collarbone, getting everywhere. His nose is filled with the biting, acrid stench of it.

Despite how badly he’s spilled the chemical, his eyes are where he’s in the most pain. The burn is like nothing he’s ever experienced and already his throat feels raw from screaming. He thinks, distantly, that he should have asked Martin about any neighbors who might call the authorities. The thought makes him clench his mouth shut, teeth digging harshly into his lower lip and drawing blood. Iron and ammonia mix on his tongue, a disgusting combination. But it forces his screams of anguish to quiet and he crouches in the shower, entire body shaking. Each push of palms or fingers against his eyes only makes the pain worse, forces the chemicals deeper into his eyes. He swears he can feel them being eaten away, can feel his corneas dissolving under the abrasive ammonia. But he has to let the chemical do its job, has to wait until the deed is finally done. Even if that means curling up on himself moaning and cussing in turns, trembling from head to toe, his stomach climbing up his throat with each stab of pain like he has anything to puke up except bile and blood.

It takes a while, a lot longer than he wants it to certainly, but eventually he feels something deep within him…snap. It’s sudden and abrupt and _so_ much more painful than his eyes that he can’t even _try_ to quiet the scream that rips itself out of his throat, shredding the sensitive tissue and simultaneously robbing him of all the air from his lungs. He falls back on his ass, heaving for air and gagging as his stomach finally tries to rebel. Bile spills over his tongue and lips, searing him where the ammonia has already eaten flesh away.

He barely hears the bathroom door open, definitely doesn’t notice the force with which it hits the wall and ricochets. But he hears Martin’s voice, breathless and trying not to panic. “ _Jesus fucking Christ, Jon._ ”

There are hands, suddenly, on his cheeks and he jerks away from them. “Don’t-” he manages to croak, and his voice comes out strangled and anguished. He wants to tell Martin that he’ll burn himself, touching Jon’s chemical and bile soaked skin. But Martin just grabs him again, harsher this time.

“Shut _up_ , Jon, just _shut up_. God, look at what you’ve done to yourself, Jesus. Okay, okay, I’m going to turn the water on, alright?”

Jon sniffles and for the first time realizes he’s not actually crying even if his body is going through the motions. He should be. He’s certainly in enough pain. Most likely though, the chemical has ruined his tear ducts and he’ll never be able to cry again.

He can hear Martin shifting, the rustling of fabric against skin, then the squeaking of metal and pipes. He still cries out when cold water hits him suddenly and from above, but when he automatically tries to move away from it, Martin pushes him back under the spray.

“Stay still,” Martin hisses, sounding put upon even under his fear. More squeaking metal and the water warms, becoming more bearable.

Breathing shakily, no longer screaming, Jon tips his face up into the spray. He can’t keep his eyes open under it, can barely open his eyes at all for the swelling of the lids and the seizing of muscle. But the water slowly but surely rinses his face and neck clean, soothing irritated, burned skin.

“There,” Martin murmurs, talking more to himself than Jon. His hands flutter around Jon’s face, brushing at sensitive skin and making him flinch. “Shh, it’s okay, we have to get it all off. Can you open your eyes?”

“I don’t think so,” Jon croaks back. His clothes are quickly becoming sodden and he never heard the door close so water must be getting all over the bathroom floor. But Martin doesn’t seem to care.

“Here,” the other man says, hands moving down to pull at Jon’s arms. “C’mon, stand up. We have to rinse your eyes.”

With Martin’s help, Jon is able to stand. The shower with both of them in it is cramped, even more so when he hears Martin curse quietly and close the door behind them, trapping them inside together. The water is only room temperature so as not to aggravate Jon’s burns further, but the space quickly grows hot with both of them in it, Martin so much larger than Jon and pressing in all around him.

There’s more metallic clicking as Martin messes with something, and then the water spray changes from many small streams to one, large steady one. Martin guides him under it so that it hits him along the bridge of his nose and runs into both of his eyes, whisking away the stream of chemical leaking from under his eyelids.

“I’m going to try and open your eye,” Martin warns quietly, his voice coming from so close it sends shivers across Jon’s damp skin. His fingers touch Jon’s cheek gently, a warning, before prodding around his swollen eye. Jon sucks in a sharp breath, trying to not to flinch away from the pain of it as Martin forces his eye open.

….nothing. Not even darkness. It’s just an absence where before he had his vision, and the shock of it shakes Jon to his core. He can’t help the way he gasps and jerks away.

“Jon!” Martin admonishes, grabbing at him again. Then, softer, “are you okay?”

“I…I can’t see,” Jon admits shakily, this time dutifully staying still as Martin opens his eye.

“I thought that was the point,” Martin replies, trying to joke, but he sounds…scared.

Jon doesn’t reply. Doesn’t know how to formulate the words to explain the difference between expectation and reality. The fear that comes with being forever in the dark. And figuratively at that. Now that he’s actually paying attention he can tell that there’s just nothing there anymore, no vision, no darkness, no shades, no difference between when his eyes are open versus closed. Like the wires have been severed between his eyes and brain. Or more accurately, his eyes have been completely ruined. He can’t imagine how horrific they look and unbidden images of the burned eyes he’d seen while researching swim to the surface of his mind; whites gone red and bloody and strained, irises milky and useless, fragile membranes ruined beyond recognition. He’s in enough pain he knows his eyes must be similar, not to mention the blistering of the skin of his face, how he can feel those open burns blistering and peeling already under the cool spray of the water.

It takes thirty minutes for Martin to be satisfied that Jon’s eyes are clean. They’re both sodden by that point, weighed down by dripping clothing, Jon shivering from shock, pain, and fatigue and Martin gone quiet with his own exhaustion.

“Okay,” Martin says quietly, and finally shuts off the water. The sudden silence is deafening, the only noise the steady dripping of water off them both. The shower door opens and in rushes cool air, making Jon hunch his shoulders against the sudden chill.

“Stay here,” Martin instructs. I’ll bring towels and clothes.”

Jon stands there quietly, eyes too sore and tired and painful to hold open, and listens to Martin shuffle around. After a moment he can hear wet clothing hit the ground and realizes the other man has stripped down. Probably best. No need to trail water all across the apartment. The bathroom door opens, bringing more cold air with it, and then Martin’s gone.

Standing there alone, Jon feels like maybe he should be…afraid. He’s alone and in the dark and no longer completely capable of taking care of himself. This apartment is unfamiliar. He’s just lost one of his most important senses. He’s made himself _vulnerable_ and he’s in so much goddamn _pain._ Not to mention the initial moment of finding himself blind had certainly been terrifying enough.

But instead all he feels is a bone shaking relief. Like all the pressure and weight of the past year has been lifted from his shoulders. Like he’s cut himself open and removed all the dangerous, cancerous growths that being the Archivist had caused, and now all that’s left is to cauterize the wound and heal.

Martin returns a moment later and helps Jon undress and dry off. Jon can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed about it. He’d been a mess when Martin has burst in on him, puking stomach bile all over himself, screaming, covered in ammonia. If he can lean against Martin during all that and let the other man clean up and help him, a little nudity is nothing.

Once Jon is dry and dressed again, Martin ushers him out into the apartment and into what Jon assumes is the living room. But then his reaching hands find a mattress covered in a duvet so soft he wants to sink into it and never get up again. His fingers tangle in the fabric. He forces himself to stop and turns his head towards where he thinks Martin is.

“But the couch-” he says, confused.

Martin grumbles and gives him a gentle push. “Just get in the bed, Jon. You look like you’re going to keel over at any second.”

And really Jon can’t argue with that because it’s the truth. So he carefully crawls up onto the bed, patting around until he finds a pillow. The bed dips beside him a moment later, Martin presumably, and in complete silence they lay down together. Jon’s asleep the moment he pulls the duvet up to his chin.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so I don't actually have a clear plan for where to take this fic. shit's gonna hit the fan, it HAS to, but i gotta figure out how Jon and Elias' showdown is going to play out (considering taking it a creepy almost sexual direction b/c Elias has always given me that Vibe when it comes to Jon) and I also have to sever Martin and Peter. so like. its gonna update, i promise, i just gotta make sure im happy w/ the direction im going. 
> 
> and on that note, pls feel free to comment your opinions or hmu on [tumblr](https://scribespirare.tumblr.com/)!


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